


And Then We Had Tea

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent goes on, Dining, Drugs, M/M, Mummy and Mummies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A Holmes family tradition through good and bad times.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 45
Kudos: 85





	And Then We Had Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [А потом мы пили чай](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29375961) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Advent in February. Has a ring to it, right? Have to confess that I really enjoyed writing this entry and I hope you will enjoy reading it. Love your comments and I apologise for finally giving up on answering all the earlier ones. Just couldn’t manage it. But a clean slate now!
> 
> Trying to figure out how I could do an Advent/Valentine story...

It snowed last year too; I made   
a snowman and my brother   
knocked it down and then  
we had tea.

-Thomas, D.

He dressed with even more particular care than usual, although he would have denied that fact with his last breath. “You could come along, you know,” he said, still trying to decide whether or not to open the second button on his dark forest green Grieves and Hawkes shirt. He looked up to watch John’s reflection in the mirror.

The other man was still sprawled amongst the tossed and tangled sheets, wearing only boxers and a tatty RMAC tee shirt. They’d had a lie-in. John grinned. “And interfere in your annual Christmas lunch with your brother? Not a chance.”

Sherlock scowled at him, fighting the temptation to crawl back into the bed. “You’re a terrible flatmate.”

John only laughed.

Sherlock opened the second button, knowing that Mycroft would disapprove.

*

It was originally Mummy’s idea, of course.

Mycroft was home from Eton for the Christmas break and she insisted on telling him, more than once, how much Sherlock had missed him. Needless to say, Mycroft was skeptical about that, but he wanted Mummy to be proud of him, so he actually agreed to spend a day with his little brother.

They took the train into King’s Cross. It was a much different journey, Mycroft discovered, when one was in the company of a seven-year-old boy filled with too much energy and too many questions. It took very little time for those questions to devolve into loud and hideous queries about the personal lives of the other passengers in the First Class carriage.

_Why is her hair that horrid colour? Isn’t it too early for whiskey? Does that ring in her nose hurt?_

Finally, Mycroft purchased a lemonade and an iced bun for the boy, knowing that the sugar was a mistake, but needing to shut him up. 

It worked for about five minutes and then Sherlock fixed him with a stare. “What are we going to do in London?” he asked, licking at the icing on his upper lip.

“I will give you a choice,” Mycroft said expansively. “British Museum or Natural History Museum.” He leaned forward. “Mummies or dinosaurs?”

Sherlock gave the matter serious consideration [the chewing on his lower lip gave it away] before announcing, “Mummies.”

The city was ready for the holidays, the usual London hustle and bustle multiplied by ten. A light snow was falling, the store windows teased and tempted, the buskers were entertaining the crowds with every vaguely themed Christmas song in existence. It was something of a relief to get to the British Museum, although there was the usual throng of tourists and school groups to deal with inside.

They went directly to the second floor. Mycroft let Sherlock take the lead as they wandered the galleries for three hours. Finally, Mycroft pulled him away, afraid they would be late for their lunch reservation. “I did bring a tie for you,” he said as they reached the kerb.

“No, thank you,” Sherlock said, grinning as he managed to catch the attention of a passing black cab. “I have given up wearing ties.”

Mycroft snorted.

Their first Christmas lunch at Simpson’s went well. Sherlock rattled on about mummies and flint knives and how he wished to do a ‘forensic exam’ on the mummy of Artemidorus the Younger. “I doubt the museum would approve,” Mycroft said, hiding a smile.

He enjoyed himself.

And, just like that, lunch with Sherlock at Christmas time became a tradition.

*

Mycroft stood on the pavement in front of the Ivy, waiting.

Trust his brother to manage to arrive just in time. It was three minutes before their reservation when he finally saw Sherlock striding towards him, properly dressed, at least, in a black suit and a cornflower blue shirt. No tie, of course. It had been months since they had seen one another and Sherlock had clearly had a growth spurt. Sixteen now, voraciously and vocally bored at Eton, of course, and according to Mummy, _a darling boy, but completely impossible._

Mycroft was still enjoying his starter of Cornish shellfish bisque, while Sherlock poked suspiciously at his Twice-baked Cheddar soufflé, when he realised that Mummy was quite correct, at least about the ‘completely impossible’ part. The darling bit evaded him completely.

Admittedly, Mycroft himself had also often been bored at Eton, mostly by the dullness of the other pupils, but he managed to find ways to compensate. Not Sherlock, it seemed. Unless... “Did you really blow-up the chemistry lab?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock only sighed as the waiter delivered Mycroft’s shepherd’s pie and his own fish and chips. 

Mycroft lifted a brow at him, clearly expecting a reply.

Sherlock made a gesture as if waving off an annoying insect. “Nothing was blown up. At the worst, it was a very minor fire.”

For the first time, really, it occurred to Mycroft Holmes to wonder just what was going to happen to Sherlock. How would he ever find a place in the world? It was an unsettling thought and he resolved to broach the subject with Mummy and Daddy before he returned to work in London after the holidays.

*

He was not actually very confident that Sherlock would even turn up for their usual lunch. It was true that Mummy had seemed quite optimistic about the idea. She had, however, at the same time suggested that he pick the location with care. In the end, Mycroft decided to avoid any public venue at all and simply invited Sherlock into his new flat. It was not the house that he aspired to, not yet, but it was in a very desirable building in Mayfair. He’d catered the meal in from Simpson’s and given his housekeeper the day off.

Now, Mycroft stood at the front window, looking down on Albemarle Street, for nearly thirty minutes before he saw a vaguely familiar figure walking towards the building. Walking hesitantly and Sherlock did not usually hesitate; he was more the bull charging into the china shop, albeit an elegant one. On this day, his brother was clearly too thin and the jacket he wore was not warm enough for the December weather. He needed a good coat.

There was only a short pause before Mycroft heard the lift approaching; the doorman had been prepared in advance to admit the unsuitable guest immediately.

Although he was standing right there, Mycroft waited until there was a soft knock on the door before opening it.

Sherlock had clearly made an effort. The button-down shirt was clean, although badly wrinkled, and the denim trousers seemed free of obvious stains. His long hair was still a bit damp, so recently washed.

When his gaze reached Sherlock’s face, their eyes met. Mycroft could tell that his brother was not high. At the moment. “Come in,” he said. “Lunch is waiting.”

Sherlock only nodded and stepped inside.

*

Mycroft was bemused and annoyed to be sweating on Christmas Eve.

It was hot in Rio.

He was standing by the water, watching the Lagoa Christmas tree moving slowly through the water.

“The largest floating Christmas tree in the world,” said the ginger-haired stranger who had slipped next to him like a ghost.

Which seemed sadly appropriate.

“An impressive achievement,” Mycroft replied dryly.

There was a pause.

“You’ve come a very long way to have a meal with a dead man,” Sherlock commented, finally.

“It’s a tradition,” Mycroft said.

His brother only gave a sniff in response.

It was not until they were sitting in the back room of a small, slightly rundown cafe which doubled as a MI6 safe house that Mycroft took the opportunity to study his brother carefully. It was difficult to find any hint of the inquisitive and annoying little boy, the sullen teenager, even the junkie of the past. Instead, he saw a man who had spent too long balancing on a tightrope, tempting death and committing acts he’d never actually contemplated committing. Mycroft did not dare to look into Sherlock’s eyes for more than a moment, because he feared what he might do if he let himself be captured by the naked pain residing there. Like simply grabbing his brother and shoving him onto the first plane bound for London.

They had finished the turkey, the rice, the salad and were eating the panettoneis before Sherlock asked the question which had been hovering in the air between them throughout the meal. “How is John?”

Mycroft swallowed the last of the fruitcake before answering. “Surviving. Perhaps...perhaps beginning to think about living.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, but the word sounded false.

They sat in silence as they drank the strong coffee, followed by port.

*

They were back at Simpson’s for the first time in years.

For two men, both of whom so often scorned the traditional, this seemed the right place to be for their lunch. In that spirit, they decided on the iconic roast beef served from the 19th century silver cart, with the usual sides. Beyond a brief exchange of small, rueful smiles, they did not acknowledge their choice.

Mycroft eyed his brother, trying to remember when he had last seen such contentment in his eyes. Had he ever done so?

As Sherlock described a recent case—a _nine, Mycroft,_ there was a hint of an enthusiasm he’d probably last seen in a small boy rhapsodizing about the mummies in the British museum. When his tale reached the point where John Watson suddenly appeared, his trusty weapon to hand, and saved the day, Sherlock’s face changed minutely. Became, somehow, softer. An indication of the recently announced Romantic Relationship, no doubt.

Mycroft did not comment on it, of course. Instead, he merely summoned the waiter and ordered treacle sponge with vanilla bean custard and a pot of Earl Grey.

Sherlock opted for the lemon curd with meringue.

They shared the tea.

*

John was watching a football match on the telly when Sherlock returned from his lunch with Mycroft. A plate with crumbs and a glass containing only the dregs of a beer were on the table next to him. He smiled. “How was your lunch?” he asked after they shared a quick kiss.

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa and glowered. “Tedious,” he said. “As usual.”

**


End file.
